In Love

Anyone can fall in love

It’s staying in love

That’s truly special.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “Takoma.”

                 “Here”

…To be hot in the dawn

of a beam-pumping sun

while its bent is to fawn

on the very third one

of its innermost planets

-a town there called Here –

(forget its griefs, fan its

small errors, its fear,

its unwitting decedents –

forgive its death-credence,

its opters-out present and past.)

To be there on that street is to last.

To be spun so close before so hot

a star is the happiest lot. …

                                    

“Bearings“

The earth’s diurnal twirl would appear    

to make her denizens vertiginous

but for precession’s happy wobble dance;   

it only seems like ev’rything is futile,

we’re not just going round in circles here,

revolving round the sun year after year –   

our Sol’s at rim of spinning Milky Way    

engaged in her ninth turn since time began,

but still, it’s not monotonously cyclic

for our galactic cluster heads somewhere:     

Since Milky Wayeans participate

along with our Andromedan confrers

in forces contrary, at any rate,,

to that entropic aging all life shares,

there may just be the actual up-side

of time-reverse, near immortality,

at least five billion years ’till we collide,

again one cosmic outwardness to see.

So add height to your posture, lilt to stride –

a loping lanky pace you can take on,

you grasp the basic linearity

of humankind’s loopy trajectory –

so you can choose to be dizzy no more,

the mind at last deciding to take heart –

the thoughtful mind that now cannot be bored.

“New Look at the Long View of the Big Picture”

Most galaxies seek loneliness.

It’s one of entropy’s decrees

they fly apart.  Such onliness

Our Milky Way can’t please.

It seems that we’ll win chaos’ joys;

we’ve found we hurl our spinning spiral

toward dear Andromeda’s shocked boys,

(though prob’ly nice).  We’re not so viral –

But now much less excusable must rate

that Earthlings war in spite of mortal fate.

…

                     Deities

Religiosos like to say

no greater love can man bestow

than when one gives his life away

to help a brother-man.  Although

they don’t cite paragons of lust,

by this ‘twould seem Desire’s king

were one who would a lover trust

to sate his comrade’s hungering.

Qashqadaryo — The Land of the Timurids

For every soul, the place of their birth holds an irreplaceable meaning.

For me, that place — Qashqadaryo — is not just my homeland, but the very source of my greatest happiness and pride.

No matter how many poems I compose or novels I write, I doubt I could ever truly capture the fragrance, the spirit, or the magic woven into a handful of Qashqadaryo’s soil. As a child, I sometimes dreamed of being born in the capital. I would wonder, «If I had been born in Tashkent, would I have had more opportunities?» Today, I smile at those innocent thoughts, for I now realize that my greatest fortune was being born in Qashqadaryo — the cradle of history, the land of timeless traditions. Even now, as I pursue my studies in the capital, a tender longing forever lives in my heart — a longing for my homeland, for the sweet memories of my childhood, for the scent of Qashqadaryo’s air, for the songs of its birds.

Whether I step outside or turn the pages of a book, this yearning quietly embraces me. Over the years, I have made friends across the world — in Iran, the USA, Tajikistan, Pakistan, and beyond. During our conversations, I often see admiration in their eyes. A friend from Washington State once told me: «You were born in a land worthy of pride. Every region of Uzbekistan is unique, but Qashqadaryo — the land of the Timurids — stands apart. And to be from Yakkabog‘ is a rare honor, for you share your homeland with the great Amir Temur himself.» Those words stirred a profound pride within me — a feeling I shall carry forever. Indeed, Qashqadaryo is a land like no other. Its air, its soil, the melodies of its birds — all are imbued with a unique spirit. Its people are hardworking, generous, open-hearted, and kind.

When misfortune befalls one, the entire village gathers to help. Our celebrations are truly special, especially during Navruz, our cherished spring festival, when young and old alike come together in joy. We simmer sumalak, organize traditional games, and send our brightest wishes soaring into the future. Among Qashqadaryo’s many treasures is our beloved national game — Kupkari. Here, young men display their courage and skill, galloping across the field as if racing toward their beloved. This sacred land has not only left its mark on history but also shines in the world of literature. The great poet Abdulla Oripov was born here, nurtured by the spirit of Qashqadaryo. Many other remarkable individuals who have served our nation with honor have also risen from this blessed soil. And so, with pride swelling in my chest, I say:

«I am proud to have been born in Qashqadaryo!»

Dilobar Maxmarejabova is a first-year student English, Philology and Language Teaching faculty of Uzbekistan’s Journalism and Mass Communications University.

The mood 

Cats lie on trash bins with tales pointed south,

Arabic Simoom blow high up to heavens.

The gawkers today better shut their own mouths,

The curious sand will get under the palate.

Cars hide under canvas that is set adrift

Dust busily gets under every eyelid.

The nature presents with a very harsh gift

The heart in the chest just refuses to beat.

Today I don’t love me and I don’t love you,

I’ll be the wind that makes all the roofs shutter.

Don’t mind me, friends, I’m feeling blue,

And verses are born that don’t really matter.

Nigar Nurulla Khalilova is a poet, novelist, translator from Azerbaijan, Baku city, currently in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. She is a member of Azerbaijan Writers Union. Nigar N. Khalilova graduated from Azerbaijan Medical university, holds a Ph.D degree. She has been published in the books, literary magazines, anthologies and newspapers in Azerbaijan, Russia, Saudi Arabia, USA over the years. Nigar N. Khalilova participated in poetry festivals and was published in the international poetry festivals anthologies. Conducted data in the Austin International Poetry Festival (AIPF), 2016-2017.

Daughter of the Homeland

This pride is higher than the mountains of Askar,

In my hand, the homeland stands brave.

Now you, soldiers, go to the adge,

Today Durdona is preparing for battle.

With my grandfather’s belt around my waist,

I will walk along the paths that Manguberdi loved.

If the enemies bring me to the gallows,

Then I will say “Homeland”, “Homeland”.

Today to erase your sorrows,

Your poetess daughter will take a sword in her hand.

I will never allow it to be erased,

The trace left by my grandfather Amir Temur.

This pride is higher than the mountains of Askar,

In my hand, the homeland stands brave.

Now you, soldiers, go to the adge,

Today Durdona is preparing for battle!

Hashimjonova Durdana daughter of Sodirjan. Born of April 29, 2010 Rishtan district, Fergana region.  Currently, she is an 8th grade student at school No.59.

The Colour of Freedom

We are searching out the beloved colour of freedom—

Where is the colour?

Is it in the rays of the sun, on the lips of the Royal Poinciana flowers,

Or in the arc of a rainbow?

Maybe the color of freedom rests on the wings of birds,

Or in the murmuring resonance of a river.

In the torn string of a lad’s kite,

In the twilight dance of evening- in the grains, kissed by dew,

In the footsteps of farmers returning home,

In the muscle of the worker’s sweat-soaked arms.

Or the colour of freedom seizes the day

In the school bell 

In the eternal look of awaiting mother,

In the igniting wave of a singer’s note,

In the poet’s emotional cry—

Where does the colour of freedom reside?

When morning breaks,

The sun rises,

Birds take a fly toward the horizon,

And the march for liberation approaches—

Crowds of people flood the streets.

With the sound of gunfire,

Birds and nature fall silent,

Piercing the throats of people dream comes out 

In the bunches of Silk Cotton and Palash flowers.

And, at that very moment,

Freedom unearths its colour

In the splotchy hopes of green grass,

Thus we see,

We hear,

And we believe-

The colour of freedom is of blood.

Translated by Ashraf Chowdhury